


Such A Beautiful Silence, The Space Between Songs

by sakura_freefall



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I get Gav out alive because it's my fic and I can do what I want, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mutual Pining, Sad Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall
Summary: The totally-not-cliche A Little Fall Of Rain AU where Grantaire is the first to die and confesses his love for Enjolras. Because I am apparantly incapable of writing anything that doesn't involve angst, ghosts, or angsty ghosts.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Les Amis de l'ABC
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Such A Beautiful Silence, The Space Between Songs

Grantaire made his way along the edge of the barricade, keeping an eye on Enjolras at all times. The stupid leader's face was smeared with dirt and ash as he climbed up to get a clearer view of the surroundings, sun hitting his hair like a halo and turning his red vest into fire. The only reason Grantaire had bothered to turn up at all was to keep Enjolras- and the rest of his friends- as safe as he could. He knew that this would never suceed, that the best outcome he could hope for was that they'd flee before they were captured, or worse, killed. Maybe he could convice them to see sense, he thought, but deep inside he knew that was fleeting.

But something else was keeping the cynic at the front line of battle. The leader, who'd barely spared him a side-eye, except to argue with him, mostly which Grantaire had provoked him into. Grantaire couldn't help but tease the man, with his silly ideas and out-of-fashion dress, and the wine loosened his tongue so much that the words slid out like melted butter. And he couldn't help but enjoy seeing the electricity in his face as he yelled at him, the furious passion that would only be directed at him in anger, nothing like the friendly warmth he showed the others. He knew it wasn't to be, that he couldn't hope for Enjolras to take him as a lover- even calling them friends would be a stretch, but still he drunk himself on wine and love, yelled at him until his heart broke, and painted in a dimly lit studio pictures of an angel. He was hopelessly in love with Enjolras, and at the same time believed that he hardly knew he existed.

He'd go through fire for that man, he knew that, or freezing snow, or vast, empty nothingness. That was what ran through the subconscience of his mind as he saw the uniformed soldier turn, pointing at Enjolras's exposed back as he turned the other way, raise the rifle, and, as if in slow motion, pull the trigger.

Grantaire let instinct take over from there, felt a jolt of pure fear as he threw himself in front of the taller man, feeling something hot and cold and heavy tear into his chest. For a moment, the only thing in his mind was relief. Enjolras was safe. Safe, safe, safe.

He felt the world start to blur around him, darkness scattering at the edge of his vision, feeling himself fall to the ground as if he was swimming in syrup, and his entire body hurt, like whatever had hit his chest was a beacon of scalding, boiling water pulsing and steaming inside of him, burning away everything until only bright light and aching pain was left. He could hear shouting that felt like it came from far away, and he struggled to keep his eyes open as he dragged a hand over the epicenter of the pain.

He wasn't surprised to find it soaked in what looked like wine but really wasn't. Grantaire wasn't stupid, he knew the odds of surviving this, even with the best medical care, were astronomical at best. All he could do was hope that someone- anyone, would find him, notice him, see him...

All of a sudden, he felt someone grab him by the shoulders, pull his face into their lap. He looked up to see the blurred face of Apollo himself, the sunlight casting a strange, almost ethereal glow around him. He could feel him shaking underneath him, as Enjolras's hands made their way to his stomach, trying futily to stop the blood.

"Joly! Get Joly! JOLY!" Enjolras yelled, stubborn even when there was no use. All he'd do was waste precious medical supplies that the others would need.

"S'okay, Monsieur," Grantaire choked out. "I don't... it doesn't hurt." He was lying, but what use was truth at a time like this? Nothing. All lies. All of it. Why was Enjolras here, caring now? He did not want to be a nusiance. Not now.

"Grantaire..." Enjolras muttered, his voice almost breaking. "Grantaire, y-you weren't... you didn't... you didn't even w-want t-to be h-here..."

"Shh, 'Pollo," he moaned, trying to move his hand to touch the other man's shoulder. "Don'- don' dirty your jacket." He tried to smile.

"My... that doesn't matter! You- you didn't even... why did you come? It's- you didn't even want to be here!" Somewhere in the flurried depths of Grantaire's mind, he could tell he didn't want Enjolras to be upset. He couldn't be upset. He couldn't!

"Nowhere else... nowhere else I'd rather..."

"I... I can help! What- what can I do? Can I get Joly, maybe we could still..." His voice trailed off.

"S'alright. Just... please don't go..." It was selfish, but Grantaire didn't think he could take being alone again.

"Of course not! I'm staying right here. I'm staying right here." He stroked Grantaire's cheek with a gentleness he didn't know the man was capable of.

"What- wha' happens next?" he slurred, feeling the edges dull and his tongue loosen as if he was drunk. The existential thought slipped out before he could bite it back.

"I... R, I don't know. I think- I don't know, I never thought, but I... I know you're going to be okay. Somehow. Listen, when you get there, get a table, have a drink." Enjolras was rambling, his voice shaking in a way Grantaire had never heard it shake before. "Get a drink, and... and wait, okay? Whether it's tomorrow, or in- in fifty years, save me.. save me a seat. I'll have a drink with you then, okay? We'll talk about- about everything. Just hold on. Hold on. Please," he said, gripping Grantaire's hand.

"'Course I'll wait, Apollo. 'S the least I could do..." Grantaire could feel his mind slipping into the dark already.

"No! N...no, R... R, you can't! Don't leave me! Don't go! No!" he cried, shaking him. Grantaire couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't anything, it all hurt too much. He strained to look up at Enjolras, who impossibly had tears streaking his face, tears Grantaire wished he could wipe away.

"I..." he stammered. "Monsieur... I d-do believe I was... a little bit... in love with you."

The next thing Grantaire felt was the pain rushing away as if being pulled out of him bit by bit. On impulse, he stood up, feeling like floating and falling all at once, paired with a dizzying feeling of letting go a weight he didn't know he was carrying. He looked around, fixed his eyes on Enjolras, who was huddled around something, curled in on himself. What had happened? 

"Enjolras? Apollo?"

"Grantaire..." came the low moan. "Grantaire, why..."

"Enjolras?" He took a step forward, feeling himself slide through a board as if it were made of air. Perhaps he was drunk again. "Enjolras, what's the matter?"

"Grantaire..." he said again. "You... why did it have to be you? Why did you have to leave?"

Confused, Grantaire squinted down at the figure on the ground. With a start, he noticed that he was looking down at himself, covered in dirt and blood. So he was dead.

If he was dead, though, why was he still here? Why was he still talking, and moving around, and thinking and feeling? He held his hand up to his face, and sure enough, he could see the faint outline of the street directly through it. It was strange, but strange didn't faze him much. It was no stranger than some of the drunken hallucinations he'd experienced.

But Enjolras was crying. And Enjolras was not allowed to cry, least of all over him. He moved to touch his shoulder, only to find his hand passing directly through.

"Oh, _shit."_

He pulled it back, alarmed, and settled himself awkwardly next to the crying man in red. He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do- could he move things? Be seen? He supposed not, because Enjolras didn't really seem to notice him there. 

With nothing to lose, Grantaire put a weightless arm across Enjolras's back, positioning himself so he didn't accidentally pass through the other man. Get a drink, he'd said. Save a seat. That would prove difficult with no ability to touch or drink, and no way to sit himself properly on a chair. Well, he'd just have to disappoint. Even in death, yet again.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac slowly approached Enjolras, and began to cry once they saw what had happened. Grantaire instinctively moved to comfort them, but he passed through as if he was nothing but air. All he could do was watch as the three picked up his body and moved it to the side, before a crying Courfeyrac helped Enjolras up.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do, short of watching everything unfold, so he settled himself in a corner on the ground, gazing over the top of the barricade and wishing he had something to drink.

A few hours later, a commotion aroused the group. Grantaire could hear piercing shouts, yells, and a cry for help. He saw out of the corner of his eye, a thin, red-haired man be dragged over the edge of the barricade by a group of soldiers.

"Jehan!" screamed Bossuet, panicking. "They got Jehan!"

"NO!" screamed Feuilly. "No, No, NO! Do something!"

"We have their man," Combeferre suggested shakily. "We- we could do a trade..."

"Yes, that! Bahorel, get a white flag! Grantaire, just-" Enjolras cut off and took a deep breath. "Marius. You go with him."

That was when a scream suddenly rang out over the barricade, and a high pitched voice screaming _"VIVE L'AVENIER!"_ before a thunderclap of gunshots pierced the air.

Grantaire didn't know what drew him over to the enemy's encampment and Prouvaire, maybe some invisible force or some subconscious impulse. But one moment he was there, and the next, he was kneeling in front of Jehan, who abruptly stood up and looked curiously down at his body. "Oh dear," he sighed, as if this were as benign an issue as running out of coffee or losing a pen. Then he remembered that this was Jehan Prouvaire he was dealing with, and this seemed like a rather normal response for the poet.

"Jehan?" Grantaire ventured. 

"R! Is that you?"

"No, it's Napoleon," Grantaire answered, flooded with relief that at least someone could see him. "It's obviously me."

"Oh! I missed you! And if I'm seeing you here, I suppose that means I'm dead, aren't I?" Jehan noticed conversationally.

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you are. Sorry," he replied.

"Oh, it's perfectly all right," he said with an air of distracted contentment. "So, how does this whole thing work? Can I touch things? Can I talk to people?"

"Uhm, no, and no," he replied. "At least, I don't think so."

"Oh," replied Jehan, looking down at his feet. "Oh dear." He drifted away to inspect a broken chair, attempting to elicit movement out of it. "Oh dear."

"I'm sorry?" Grantaire offered, unsure of what else to say. 

"Oh don't be sorry, friend, I'm glad to see you again. Simply worried about, well, the others."

"Me too. Me too," Grantaire replied. He began to make his way back around the barricade out of habit rather than drifting straight through the way Jehan did. It felt uncomfortable, not to be able to interact with the world.

He had only a moment of rest before the firing began again. Eponine, the girl, sent Gavroche back to his elephant, making him promise not to return until the fighting was over. The child complained for a few moments, but ultimately the older girl's stare won out and the boy scrambled through the back street to safety. Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief, at least the little one would be all right.

Someone shouted that they were low on ammunition, and Eponine volunteered to collect more, as the smallest among them. Promising Marius to be careful, she picked her way around bodies and gunfire, filling a hat with packets of cartridges. She made it through almost a full loop before a well-aimed gunshot blew her back into the wall of furniture, where she struggled for a few minutes before standing up resignedly. Grantaire made his way forward, tilting his head towards her, but she seemed to barely notice, going straight through the barricade in a rush to comfort a distraught Marius, not knowing that he could neither see nor feel her.

"She's a stubborn one," Jehan remarked.

"Yes, she is," Grantaire replied. He didn't know her well, only saw her at meetings a few times, but he'd gathered her fierce, brusque demeanor quite quickly. She seemed to be attempting to slap Marius upside the head, eventually giving up and making her way down the same alley Gavroche had left through, presumably to look for her brother.

It was quiet for a while before the hail of gunfire picked up again, and Bahorel made the mistake of standing up in the middle of it. Jehan went to help him up, and Grantaire made his way off to the corner, still keeping an eye on Enjolras, but also getting lost in his thoughts.

He'd told Enjolras he loved him. What a foolish mistake, for certainly the man would want nothing to do with him now. Of course, Grantaire truly hoped that he wouldn't see him here for many years, but a selfish corner of his mind was missing him sorely, if only for a fight. And Enjolras had said he wanted a drink with him! Why? Simply an empty comfort to a dying man, or an actual desire? Perhaps he'd never know. The night crept by slowly, with only Feuilly joining their ranks, and Grantaire had not been called to help him. He considered that maybe he was simply no use anymore, and would be cursed to sit here until he faded into the dark.

In the early morning, they made their final stand, Grantaire watching from the back room of the Musain, feeling more and more removed each minute as one by one all his friends were killed. He watched the others welcome them, and he tried to make peace with the fact that perhaps nobody truly missed him. Probably they were so happy to have each other, they'd forgotten the drunk in the corner. 

A noise behind him shook him from his thoughts. Enjolras was backed into a corner of the room, with eight muskets pointed at him, face streaked with tears and blood, torn red flag hanging limply in his hand. Grantaire felt almost choked at how helpless he was, watching the only person he'd ever loved stare death in the face with no escape possible.

"What have you to say for yourself?" growled an officer.

"I say that Patria herself despises your kind, sir!" his voice rang out, lound and clear even through the silence.

"Now listen here. Renounce the revolution and perhaps we'll put you in prison instead of shooting you here and now," another soldier said. "You _traitor."_

Enjolras laughed bitterly, sun glancing off his skin. "Perhaps I'll ask you to renounce your blood-spilling careers, as they are far more damaging to this country than my ideals could ever be!" Enjolras jeered, spitting at the man.

"I'm warning you one last time," huffed the commander. "Be serious!"

Enjolras straightened, and impossibly seemed to look Grantaire directly in the eye. "I am wild."

Grantaire still flinched, even though the bullets that pinned Enjolras to the wall could not touch him. He felt a wave of despair overtake him, a rush of painful denial and then acceptance. Enjolras, the untouchable, immortal Apollo, was dead too. He almost expected him to rise even so, shrugging off the balls of metal, unable to die, because how could he die? He could not!

And Enjolras did get up, but not in the way Grantaire had foolishly hoped. The man pushed himself to his feet, blinking furiously, glancing around at his body and the destroyed cafe backroom.

His eyes met Grantaire's and to the other man's surprise, a wordless shriek of joy tore through his lips as the usually-reserved man flung himself across the room and into Grantaire's arms. He felt skin meet skin, and buried his face into Enjolras's shoulder, happiness and despair battling for dominance within him, feeling Enjolras cling to his vest, and clinging right back, feeling the world come back into glorious focus. No words were needed, only the press of their forheads together and the desperate clutching at each other as Enjolras slowly began to smile. 

What Grantaire most certainly did not expect was for the man to connect their lips, soundlessly saying everything he never could. Grantaire kissed right back, feeling warmth and light flood through his entire being, feeling a tiny sprout of hope. Enjolras was _here,_ and he _loved_ Grantaire, and they were living the future, right then and there.

When they finally broke apart, laughing slightly, they embraced each other again, murmuring the pointless sorries and gentle caresses.

"Well? I was right," Grantaire sighed. "But I'm selfish, so I can't say I'm too disappointed."

"I... I think, Monsieur Grantaire," Enjolras began, "I believe I am a little bit in love with you." Grantaire felt himself laughing in spite of it all, taking Enjolras's hand in his.

"Come, Apollo," breathed Grantaire. "Our friends are all waiting. If you permit it."

"Of course I do," said Enjolras, grabbing back, pulling him outside into the street, which was clear of the blood and broken furniture and full of sunlight. A new world, with the red flag hanging high. They'd won themselves a republic after all. Their friends met them in the middle, joking and talking and laughing, with only Marius and Gavroche absent from their number, both safe in the living world. Grantaire felt himself being grabbed in hug after hug, never letting go of Enjolras's hand.

Their eyes found each other, and Grantaire found himself falling into Enjolras's arms, who caught him with a tiny laugh, and the leader in red smiled down at him as the sun shone forever from a summer's sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this totally-not-at-all-super-cliche fanfiction.
> 
> Also please appreciate the way I neatly saved Gavroche. That took a whole lot of figuring out, logistics-wise, but 100% worth it lol. Here's to Plot Armour!
> 
> Will I ever be able to write for the Les Mis fandom and NOT involve angsty ghosts? Maybe. I don't know. No promises!!
> 
> Feel free to drop comments and/or kudos if you enjoyed!!


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